


Jukebox

by irisbleufic



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1880s, 1950s, 1980s, Age Difference, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, Jukeboxes, M/M, Mixtape, Multi, Music, Musicians, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Science Boyfriends, Science Bros, Stand Alone, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six days, six songs, and six ways to over-think your history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jukebox

**Author's Note:**

> Stand-alone. Unconnected to any of the [**previous timelines/universes**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/works?fandom_id=226817). Exhibit A: I'd somehow _never_ noticed before that, during the pan-around in the opening scene, we see that Doc has a jukebox in his garage-slash-lab-slash-residence. Exhibit B: Doc blows a kiss after the DeLorean from his vantage-point on the clock tower as Marty speeds off at the end of Part I. Exhibit C: When Doc's seeing Marty off to 1885 at the start of Part III, he shouts "Vaya con dios!" I had discovered that this Spanish phrase ("Go with God") is a reference to the 1953 recording of a song by that title that was still wildly popular in 1955. I finally looked up the lyrics, which I had not bothered to do even though I'd used this piece of information (that it was a song reference) briefly in [**_As Easy As Love_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4244688?view_full_work=true), read the lyrics, listened to the full song this time, got oddly emotional, thought about the jukebox, thought about more script deconstruction, etc. About 3/4 of the events of Part III hold true for this iteration (as you'll see from where I start the first scene; this is another one with a definite cut-off/departure point like [**OSA 'Verse**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/322148) has got). The rest is more off-roading, which has been the point of this year's epic experimentation. Past October 21st, I've got to buckle down on _Good Omens_ commitments or bust. Thanks for taking a chance on this! Happy 2015: there's not much of it left.

**" VAYA CON DIOS "**

**☆ LES PAUL & MARY FORD ☆**

**September 7, 1885 / October 27, 1985**

The train whistle blew, deafening even above the screech of the DeLorean's converted tire-rims on the track. Marty, having just settled into the driver's seat, glanced anxiously behind him. _This is no time for messing around, Doc,_ he thought, relieved when he caught sight of his friend leaning out the locomotive's window. _One wrong move and we're—_

"I've always wanted to do that!" Doc shouted gleefully into his walkie-talkie. "Time circuits on?"

"Check, Doc," replied Marty. He set his shaking fingers on the keypad, afraid to take his eyes off the rushing scenery as he punched in the date and time. _Glad you cut that shit short._

"Input the destination time," continued Doc, his voice calm. "October 27th, 1985. Eleven A.M."

 _Been there, done that,_ Marty thought, his jangling nerves somewhat eased. "We're cruising at a steady twenty-five miles an hour, Doc," Marty warned him. _Get in here_ , he wanted to say, but didn't. _I won't feel remotely okay about this until you're safe beside me._

"I'm throwing in the presto logs," Doc said into the walkie-talkie. "Marty, the new gauge in the DeLorean will show the boiler temperature. The color-coding indicates when each log will fire: green, yellow, and red. Each detonation will be accompanied by a sudden burst of acceleration. Hopefully, we'll get up to eighty-eight miles per hour before the needle hits two thousand."

"Right," said Marty, re-focusing on the blurred scenery. "What happens when it hits two thousand?"

"The whole motor will explode," replied Doc, as if the awful possibility were a mere afterthought.

"Perfect," Marty said, shuddering. "Hey, Doc, we just hit thirty-five! You'd better get in here, stat!"

"Okay, Marty!" Doc called back, his shortness of breath less than reassuring. "I'm coming aboard!"

Marty knew his Greek mythology and Bible stories as well as the next high-school senior: Orpheus and Eurydice, Lot's Wife, and the whole don't-look-back nine yards. Still, for the second time, he couldn't keep from tearing his eyes off the sun-shot, rusted blur of the tracks in order to fix them on Doc's halting progress. His grip on the side of the train was steady, sure, but at any moment—

" _Doc_!" Marty shouted as Doc's foot slipped, horrified as he watched Doc, under immediate threat from roaring oblivion, dangle from the locomotive. _Think, McFly, think,_ he told himself, trying to find humor in the situation as he cast about the DeLorean's interior, and that's when his eye fell on the hoverboard in the passenger foot-well. "Hang on!" he shouted, throwing the gull-wing door open, his heart lurching at the sudden rush of wind. "Doc! _Catch it_!"

Sending the hoverboard on a straight, backward trajectory felt just as risky as flinging it haphazardly into the ether. Marty braced himself against the passenger seat as he let go, watching in breathless terror as Doc's boot snagged the hoverboard's stirrup, securing his foothold.

" _Whoa_!" Doc shouted, abruptly grinning and breathless. "On my way, Future Boy!"

"Yes!" Marty shouted, resisting the urge to give something a victory punch. Given the key-pad was the nearest thing, he refrained from doing so as he settled back in his seat. " _Yes_! Let's go."

"Seventy," Doc grunted, settling into the passenger seat and slamming the gull-wing door behind him just as another explosion rocked them. He flipped the hoverboard off his boot, wedging it between the side of his seat and the door. Only then did he glance at Marty, offering a tired smile.

Marty reached for him, never mind the gadgetry between them. " _Jesus_ , Doc, I thought you were a goner after all," he hissed, throwing his arms around as much of Doc as he could manage. He buried his face in the filthy canvas of Doc's duster, breathing hard against Doc's shoulder; he didn't care about watching the scenery _or_ the track anymore, didn't care about _anything_ —

"Eighty," Doc murmured into Marty's hair, clinging to Marty as if _he'd_ have been the one to reach if Marty hadn't. "Hold on, Marty," he added, his voice low. "Eighty-five, eighty-six..."

Marty squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled as the DeLorean shuddered with familiar, bone-rattling intensity. He knew the blue-white flash by heart, shivered through the eerie ghost-trace of it behind his eyelids. He blinked as they decelerated, registering the fretful, repeated clutch-and-release of Doc's fingertips between his shoulder blades. _Ding, ding, ding_. That sound meant—

"Get out of the car," said Doc, not even skipping a beat, attempting to keep his voice calm. He let go of Marty, reached across to release the catch on Marty's door, and then did the same with his own. "Marty, get out of the car _now_!" he exclaimed, vaulting out his own side of the vehicle before Marty could even protest. "I'll see you on the other—"

" _Shit_!" Marty shouted. He scarcely had time to comply. He hit the ground rolling, jarred by grit and gravel and hard-packed earth. A piece of broken glass dug into his palm, rousing him from sheer adrenaline shock. _Broken glass, Jesus Christ,_ he thought. _We really are home._

He lay there for a few stunned seconds, scrabbling for his hat, wide-eyed as the DeLorean shattered with the impact of an oncoming commercial freighter. He closed his eyes and planted the hat back on his head, shielding himself, not even sure what good it would do. Debris pelted him anyway. Doc had gotten out of the car a split-second before he had, so Doc was probably safe.

Still, that didn't stop him from staggering to his feet and stumbling across the tracks as soon as the train had passed. Doc, already on his feet and moving in Marty's direction, caught him. They stumbled, landing on Doc's side of the tracks. Marty didn't care that he must be crushing the breath out of Doc; it's not like either one of them had been breathing for _minutes_ on end anyway.

"Well, Doc," he said shakily, hoping that the waver in his voice sounded more like stifled laughter than the threat of tears, "it's destroyed. Just like you wanted." He let his cheek rest against Doc's, gasping, letting the feel of slight stubble on both of them ground him. His hat shaded them.

"It's a shame," said Doc, quietly, rubbing Marty's back like he'd done before. "But it's for the best."

"C'mon," Marty sighed, coming to his senses; he clapped Doc on the shoulder before reluctantly ( _What's that about, huh?_ prodded his internal monologue) crawling off him. "We'd better get outta here before somebody calls the cops or something. We look ridiculous, and how the hell are we gonna explain this mess? Somehow, I don't think you'd get off with just a fine this time."

Doc accepted Marty's proffered hand, letting Marty pull him to his feet. "You're right about _that_ ," he agreed, dusting himself off once they'd found their footing. "I don't have the cash on me to pay them off, either, but I've come to understand that's...less effective these days."

Marty gave him a tilted smile. "So _that's_ how you dealt with the cop in 1955, huh?"

Doc shrugged, his grin as infectious as always. "Ways and means, Marty. I wouldn't have gotten far with many of my earliest experiments if the local law enforcement hadn't been easy to buy off."

"You'd better start walking, Doc," Marty sighed, shoving at Doc's shoulder, finding himself eager to return those impulsive touches. "I don't care if you keep yakking while you're at it, but let's move."

Strangely enough, as the adrenaline wore off, so did the desire to talk. Doc grew quiet the further they made progress through town, withdrawn into brow-knit introspection; meanwhile, Marty found that taking in the familiar sights of home was making tear-suppression difficult. It was a rare day on which he could say he'd almost cried several times, but he'd had a _lot_ of those in the past couple weeks' worth of time travel. As they strolled past the courthouse square, Red, awake and reading one of his newspapers for once, shot them a particularly disdainful glance.

"Crazy Halloweeners," muttered the bum, sniffing as he swigged his drink. "Whole week early!"

"Five days early!" Marty called back over his shoulder, waving. "Today's the twenty-seventh!"

It took them about an hour to reach Doc's place. By the time they got there, Marty felt dead on his feet. Every muscle in his body was screaming, and he needed a shower in the _worst_ way.

"Go wash up, Doc," Marty sighed, kicking out of his filthy boots, hanging his hat next to the array of placidly ticking clocks closest to the door. "It's your shower. I'll snooze while you're at it. Wake me up when you're done, all right?" He pulled the poncho over his head, wrinkling his nose. "Ugh, _disgusting_. I think we're gonna have to burn these clothes. No dry-cleaner in the world would take 'em." He dropped the poncho on top of his boots, realizing Doc hadn't spoken, glancing up to meet Doc's curiously baleful expression as Einstein trotted over to lick his hand. "I've still got some stuff over in the spare drawer, right? I can't just go home looking like this. They'll wonder."

Doc bent and patted the dog absently, but he never once took his eyes off Marty. "You're right," he said distantly, waving in the direction of the bathroom. "You ought to shower first. Get on your way sooner. If you're lucky, sneak in through your window, they'll never know you were gone. It's Sunday morning. This probably spared you the tricky business of going to the lake, didn't it?"

Marty rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing at the sweat and grime he found there, nodding. "Yeah, Doc," he said, relieved he'd found the nerve while they were in 1885 to confess his plans to Doc. There'd been strange relief in realizing the pressure of that social expectation, at least, had been deferred. "Jen's asleep on the porch swing right this instant, in fact, and..." He trailed off. "Doc, I can't even stick around to change," he said guiltily. "Filthy or not, I've gotta go make sure she's all right. I owe her that much. She didn't deserve what we put her through."

Doc nodded, marching over to fetch a can of fresh food for Einstein. "You do whatever you think's best," he said, emptying Einstein's food dish into the nearest trash bin before loading the can into his automated opener. "Let me know how it goes, all right? I worry for Jennifer's safety, too."

Marty struggled back into his poncho, an idea brewing. "Red might just have saved our asses," he said, and then shoved his feet back into his boots. "I can always claim I'm coming over here on Halloween to hand out candy at the door so you don't have to. We'd need costumes for that."

Doc shrugged, catching the empty can as the machine released it. He watched Einstein attack his breakfast, murmuring, "There's a good boy." He looked up at Marty again, nodding slowly. "That's one thing I've always admired about you, Marty," Doc said. "You can think on your feet. It's an invaluable skill. I wasn't nearly as good at that when I was your age. I was a hopeless case." Marty set his hat back on his head, watching as Doc tossed the empty can in the trash, too, and then wandered over to his Seeburg M100C on the far side of the room. "Haven't listened to you in a while, old friend," he told the jukebox, patting its light-up frontispiece. "How about a song?"

"I'll leave you to it, Doc," said Marty, awkwardly, tipping his hat before he even realized it had become a reflex. He reached for the doorknob, idly registering that Doc had punched a complex sequence of buttons on the jukebox. Without so much as requiring a coin, it crackled to life, unfamiliar strains washing over the space between them. "Call you tomorrow after school?"

"That's fine," said Doc, absently, standing with his palms resting against the machine's sides and his duster fanned behind him. "I'll always see you sooner than later. I have nowhere else to be."

Marty swallowed and nodded, growing abruptly, uncomfortably aware of the song's lyrics.

 _Now the hacienda's dark;_  
_the town is sleeping._  
_Now the time has come to part,_  
_the time for weeping._

 _Vaya con dios, my darling._  
_Vaya con dios, my love._

 _Now the village mission bells_  
_are softly ringing._  
_If you listen with your heart,_  
_you'll hear them singing._

 _Vaya con dios, my darling._  
_Vaya con dios, my love._

"I know you miss her, Doc," Marty sighed, opening the door to see himself out. "I know you always will. You saw the sign at the ravine, though, when we walked past. Eastwood." He swallowed, stepping into the sunshine. "She lived because of you. Long and well, probably."

"You'd better get home," Doc said, almost too softly to be heard above the music. "Close the door."

" _Vaya con dios_ ," Marty repeated, puzzled, doing as he was told. "Why have I heard that before?"

With renewed purpose, he tore out Doc's front gate and ran until his legs threatened to give out. By the time he reached the entrance to Lyon Estates, he was gasping, and by the time he reached the Parkers' driveway, it was clear Jennifer had vacated the porch-swing some time ago.

 _I can't just knock on the door looking like this_ , Marty thought. _They'll think I'm nuts._

He turned on his heel and walked the few blocks home, dejected, feeling for all the world as if he'd failed both Jennifer _and_ Doc. What had he ever brought either of them but confusion, mischief, or outright peril? It was a valid question, and he didn't like having to face it.

Lorraine intercepted Marty at the front door, fussing over him profusely. "Oh, _Marty_ ," she sighed, hands on hips. "I take it you never made it out Doc's door and up to the lake last night, did you? Jennifer called a little while ago; that poor girl's worried _sick_. What kind of experiment's gotten you this filthy, and what in the _world_ is up with those clothes? You'd better come inside. It's so windy today you'll catch your death. Maybe it's better you didn't go—"

"Jeez, Mom, lay off him," Dave interjected from the breakfast table, wrapped in what looked like some snooty bathrobe with cruise-line insignia (holy shit, since when did they _cruise_?) on the pocket. "You know there's no place he'd rather be than down at Doc's dump."

"It's not a dump," Marty snapped, marching past his mother to inspect Dave's choice of food. "What have we got this time, huh? Soft-boiled egg, are you serious? Mom can't even boil _water_ without it getting burnt, let alone—"

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of that creaky old twin bed," Linda yawned, shuffling out of the kitchen with two mugs in hand. She was wearing a robe that more or less matched Dave's, only it had pale-pink piping instead of ivory. "Don't just stand there," she said, shoving one of the steaming mugs of coffee into Marty's hand as she passed him. "Your jaw might fall off."

"Thanks, bro," said Dave, aiming finger-guns in Marty's direction. "Taking what's rightfully mine just like you always have. Do you know what a pain in the ass younger siblings are?"

"That's _enough_!" Lorraine scolded, and then wrinkled her nose as she regarded Marty's clothes. "I hate to say this, but you'd better put those in a trash bag or your father will have a _fit_."

"Don't worry, I was gonna," Marty sighed, removing his hat. He glared at Dave, softening his expression only slightly when he shifted his gaze to Linda. "Good morning to you guys, too."

"You're lucky Dad's on the golf course already," Linda said, sipping her coffee. "Just missed him." She picked up the newspaper, from where Dave had left it crumpled, shaking it out. "You'd better call Jennifer. I'm _still_ not your answering service. Somebody's in the doghouse."

"Whatever," Marty muttered, stalking back the hall, ignoring his mother when she made an attempt to follow him. He wasn't going to call Jennifer, not if what awaited him was abject humiliation.

He was going to strip down, shower, and crash for as many damn hours as he could stand to sleep.

__

 

 

**" BREAKIN' UP IS HARD TO DO "**

**☆ NEIL SEDAKA ☆**

**October 28, 1985**

At seven o'clock in the morning, Marty slammed his fist into his alarm clock hard enough to break it. He hadn't slept well, not during his post-departure-from-Doc's-and-family-mocking nap _or_ during the fitful night he'd had post-mild-yet-stern-lecture-from-George-at-dinner. He hadn't heard anybody go off on him about not respecting his elders since—well, since Strickland.

"Great," he said, blinking up at his ceiling in the semidarkness. "You'll see the old windbag today."

Marty took the quickest shower of his life, his second in under twenty-four hours, and managed to dodge everyone in the kitchen _except_ for Lorraine on his way out. She smacked a thankfully lipstick-free kiss on his cheek and scolded him for resorting to Pop-Tarts.

He made great time by tailgate-surfing, rolling up at Doc's front gate around seven-forty. He knocked on the door, but got no answer. Resorting to the key under the mat got him nowhere, either, because his usual sanctioned breaking-and-entering revealed an empty laboratory.

"I sure hope you're just taking Einstein for an early spin, Doc," he sighed, locking up again.

As much as he wanted to wait for Doc's return, to make sure that Doc was okay, he wasn't keen on facing Strickland's wrath. He didn't want to rack up any late slips if he happened to have a clean record in this shining new timeline he'd been gifted, either. He got to his locker with four minutes to spare; Jennifer _wasn't_ there waiting for him, so he'd have to catch her in homeroom.

That plan wasn't destined to work so well, as it turned out. During all fifteen minutes of announcements over the school's shitty P.A. system, Jennifer pretended not to notice Marty was trying to catch her eye. Marty finally gave up and scribbled a note on some scrap paper he found balled up in the front pocket of his backpack: _Meet me on the front steps after we blow this joint for the day? I'm sorry about whatever happened Saturday. We'll talk. —M._

He dropped it on Jennifer's desk, walking past as the bell rang, enduring a huffy response from Mrs. Tandler for having left his seat ahead of it. If she told Strickland, so be it, but there was no way he'd have risked Jennifer fleeing the classroom before he'd had his chance.

After all, timing was everything.

The Pinheads—Trav, Emil, and Lenny—seemed happy to see him. They joked their way through morning classes, but on paper; for some reason, Marty couldn't bring himself to do much more than pass notes. His English teacher pulled him aside before he could escape to lunch, admonishing in hushed tones that this kind of behavior was _unlike_ him. Was everything all right?

"Uh, yeah," Marty managed, fumbling his notebook into his backpack. "Everything's fine."

By the time he reached the cafeteria, the Pinheads had given him up for missing in action and gotten a table with—aw, _jeez_. Needles and his creeps, fantastic. In what timeline were the guys tight with those losers, anyway? Marty had put up with his fair share of ribbing from Needles as an underclassman, and his life at school had grown infinitely more bearable in the past couple years since Needles had dialed it back to just egging him on once in a while.

 _The car accident_ , Marty thought, returning Needles's smirk as he walked past with tray in hand. _Looks like you've avoided that fiasco, too._ He wandered around for a while, probably looking kind of pathetic, unable to find an empty seat with anybody around whom he'd felt sufficiently comfortable in his _old_ timeline. How was he supposed to know which relationships had changed and which ones hadn't? He was suddenly, _painfully_ aware that, even in his former life, his circle of friends hadn't been as big as he would've liked to think.

Marty found an empty table right under the basketball-caged clock that he literally hadn't set eyes on in thirty years. Three decades, a few days, the blink of an eye: it was all the same to him now.

He hadn't managed to get that far on his chocolate milk and pitiful-looking lasagna when a skinny, curly-haired kid in a painfully unfortunate Mr. Mister t-shirt and ratty jeans approached. She looked vaguely familiar, what with the tow-head and slightly menacing hazel eyes. There was a meek uncertainty about her posture that reminded Marty of someone he hadn't seen that long ago.

 _Tiffany Tannen_ , supplied Marty's internal monologue, helpfully. _Biff's oldest kid._

"You're Marty McFly, right?" she asked, setting her tray down at one of the chairs across from him.

"Yeah, that's me," Marty sighed, pushing around the peas on his tray. "You're—they call you Tiff?"

Tiff shrugged, sat down, and yanked open her milk-carton. "Sure beats my full name, doesn't it?"

Marty opened his mouth, and then shut it again; she looked disgruntled. "It's, ah, pretty damn cool."

"My dad wants me to tell you to tell _your_ dad that Dave's car is almost ready," said Tiff, wrinkling her nose as she cut a piece of lasagna with the edge of her fork. "Jesus fuck," she said under her breath, "this is _gross_. Is the stuff they put in here even meat? I hear it's worms."

Marty laughed at that, catching them both by surprise. "It's just really low-grade shit, you know?"

"My brothers wouldn't know the difference between this and worms if it bit 'em in the ass," Tiff said, taking a bite anyway. "Hey, listen, I wanted to talk to you about something else. My dad also says you know Doc Brown. That science guy who lives over by the Burger King on JFK?"

"Yeah, I do," Marty said, intrigued. "Been working for him a few years. He's my best friend."

Tiff raised her eyebrows. "Ooh la _la_. Not many people can say their boss is a friend. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd introduce me? I need some help on my science fair project."

Marty shrugged, deciding he was hungry enough to brave the peas. "Sure. He's a helpful guy."

"I was also wondering if you could, I don't know, sneak me some of his clothes before Thursday?" Tiff ventured, turning shy. "I, um...this is stupid, don't you _dare_ fucking laugh, but I, um..." She fiddled with a curl that had escaped her messy ponytail. "WannadressashimforH'ween."

"I, ah," stammered Marty, hesitantly, leaning forward, "didn't quite catch that. Could you repeat—"

"I wanna _dress as him for Halloween_ ," Tiff gritted out, blushing. " _God_. You got it?"

"Doc doesn't lend his clothes to just anybody," said Marty, awkwardly. "And I won't steal from him."

"Look at _you_ , all loyal and shit," said Tiff, winking at him. "That's okay. I think I've got the right kind of wig, and every time I've seen him around town he's mostly wearing stupid Hawaiian shirts and cargo pants. I think my dad's got one of those somewhere. Thanks for nothing."

"Hey, nobody can pull off those shirts like he can," replied Marty, as she got up and slammed her chair into the table hard enough to slosh his milk. "Why don't you come to his place on Saturday? I'm usually over there by noon. We'll see about getting you hooked up. How's one P.M.?"

"They say you aren't so bad," Tiff said. "Not like your trust-fund brat brother and sister, are you? That'd be totally rad." She smiled shyly; aside from an unfortunate resemblance to her father as a young man, she wasn't going to grow up to be too bad-looking. "See you around, McFly."

"Trust-fund brat brother and... _huh_ ," Marty sighed, glumly reviewing the data at his disposal.

When the bell rang at three-thirty, Marty pushed his way through teeming halls to the front entrance. He waited on the front steps until everyone had gone; by the time four o'clock had rolled around and the schoolyard was empty, there was still no sign of Jennifer. She'd given him the slip.

Marty skated home the old-fashioned way, not even bothering to stop off at Doc's place. If Jennifer didn't want to see him because he'd proved he was the world's worst boyfriend, then Doc _certainly_ wouldn't want to see him because he'd proved he was the world's worst wing-man. What kind of guy forced his best friend to give up a decent shot at happiness, anyway?

 _The kind of guy who doesn't want to lose his best friend, dipshit,_ he told himself, skating moodily past the entrance to Lyon Estates. _What's more, the kind of guy who doesn't like to look too closely at the reasons why he doesn't want to lose his best friend to some stranger._

Luck must have been looking out for him, because, on passing the Parker residence, he spotted something that caused him to skid to a halt at the curb. Jennifer was seated on the porch swing, legs drawn up, reading the book they'd been assigned earlier in English class. He'd heard of _A Separate Peace_ mostly because it was one of those classics his dad went on and on about.

When Marty flipped his skateboard into his hand and started resolutely up the driveway, Jennifer, wearing a pinched expression, set her book to one side. As Marty came up the front steps, feeling like a man gallows-bound (and didn't he know how _that_ felt), he noticed that the living-room window was open. There was a faintly tinny sound from within, as if Jennifer's parents were listening to something on their old record player in one of the adjoining rooms. Marty paused in front of Jennifer and cocked his head, trying to pick it up. She frowned at him, spreading her hands.

"Are you going to apologize to me, or are you going to stand there looking constipated?" she asked.

"I feel like I should know this song, but it sounds different from the version I know," Marty blurted, kicking himself instantly. "The singer's voice is kinda familiar, I almost—Neil Sedaka? Playing _piano_?"

"Not that I'm even half the music nerd you are," Jennifer sighed, patting the spot next to her on the swing, "but my mom _loves_ Neil Sedaka, so I happen to know a thing or two about his discography. He recorded two versions of this song, one in 1962 and one in 1975."

"So which one are we listening to, and what song is it? I can't make out the words, but the melody sounds familiar," Marty said, taking a seat, hands folded awkwardly in his lap. "It's gotta be the piano arrangement. It's messing with my ear. This is a bit...lounge-y, so I bet it's the '75?"

"It's a shame about you, Marty," Jennifer said, picking up her book. "You're a talented musician, and you're not bad at getting by on that gawky charm. But I'm just not sure..." She let the book fall open, glancing down at the page, as if hell-bent on finding where she'd left off. "I'm not sure."

Marty swallowed, staring down at his hands, lacing his fingers together. "I deserved that, huh."

Jennifer kept flipping through the book until she'd reached the back cover. She pulled out a tightly-quartered piece of paper, unfolding it with deliberation. She handed it to Marty, biting her lip.

"Oh," Marty said, realizing only too late what he was looking at as he saw the futuristic printed header and mystifyingly blank remainder. "Dammit, Jen. _Fuck_. I'd kinda hoped you—"

"You and Doc hoped I wouldn't remember, right?" Jennifer asked, eyes misting slightly. "What do I know. Maybe you hoped I'd think it was just a dream. You can put me to sleep, maybe, but you can't make me forget. That was some..." She swallowed, snatching the paper away from Marty, crinkling it up, and then threw it at him. "Some messed-up shit, Marty. And I don't want it."

Marty couldn't even collect his thoughts sufficient to form a response. The music grew louder as if one of Jennifer's parents had cranked up the volume, the rephrased words resolving themselves.

 _Now I know, I know that it's true;_  
_don't say that this is the end._  
_Instead of breaking up,_  
_I wish that we were_  
_making up again._

 _I beg of you, don't say goodbye._  
_Can't we give our love another try?_  
_Come on, baby, let's start anew,_  
_'cause breaking up is hard to do._

"Yeah," sighed Marty, dejectedly, getting to his feet. "I did deserve that. And I really am sorry."

"You avoided wrecking your hand this morning," said Jennifer, gently. "That's something, right?"

"Tell me we're still gonna hang out," Marty said, turning to blink at her through unshed tears, because, fuck everything, he wasn't going to evade them this time. "Tell me we'll still talk at school and trash my lyrics and swap college-app horror stories, because, Jen, honest to _God_ —"

"You can count on it, mister," said Jennifer, teary-eyed, her voice wavering in spite of how warmly she was smiling at him. "Now, you'd better get out of here before your mom starts to worry. Or is it Doc who's on worrying duty today?" she teased, sniffling, mopping at her cheek with her sleeve.

"Nobody's worried about me," Marty said, turning before she could see him break. "Not today."

 

 

 

**" ROCKET MAN "**

**☆ ELTON JOHN ☆**

**October 29, 1985**

Marty gritted his teeth, rearranging the contents of his backpack with fierce determination. "I'm _sorry_ ," he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder, "but I've gotta go. Just put my plate in the fridge or something. I'll pack it in one of your Tupperware thingies for lunch tomorrow."

"But you only just got home from school! When on _earth_ are you going to find the time to do your homework?" Lorraine asked, folding her arms across her chest. "I know how it goes when you spend weekday evenings over there. You're lucky if you get only a few math problems done!"

"Listen, this might be news to you, but: have you _seen_ my grades lately?" Marty demanded, feeling the tautness in his chest finally snap, getting right up in her face like he used to do with Strickland. "I'm pulling straight A's and B's in everything! Who the hell cares if I slack a little?"

Lorraine blinked at him, momentarily furious, her lips pursed, but no sooner had she processed this information than her expression softened somewhat. "Your father and I just want the best for you," she said, letting her arms drop to her sides. "We want the best for _all_ of you, and look where that's gotten your siblings. We'd just like to see you as happy and successful as they are, Marty."

"I know," Marty said, reaching for his mother, folding helplessly into her embrace. She smelled like Chanel N°5, or at least something fancy, instead of the cheap crap (undershot with vodka) she'd worn in their original timeline. She hugged just the same, though: strong and comforting.

"Oh, _Marty_ ," Lorraine murmured, squeezing him, and that was the end of it. "My poor—"

He was sobbing before he knew it, and he couldn't seem to stop. "I screwed up, Ma. Really bad."

"I knew it," Lorraine muttered under her breath. "Did something happen with you and Jennifer?"

"Happen?" Marty hiccupped, managing an incredulous laugh. "We broke up, what d'you _think_?"

Lorraine rocked him for about thirty seconds, after which point she seemed to be of the opinion his clinging had gone on for long enough. She patted him on the back and held him at arms' length, her hands firm at his shoulders. "You should go," she said. "Doc knows how to cheer you up."

Marty nodded slowly, wiping his eyes, hating himself for such a display of weakness when, yeah, as it happened, this particular woman _did_ deserve the people in her life to be strong. "I'd say you did a great job just now, though," he said. "Thanks. Tell Dad I'm sorry I missed dinner, okay?"

"I want you home by ten!" Lorraine called after him as he dashed out the door. "Eleven at most!"

Marty tailgate-surfed his way across town, narrowly avoiding a run-in with the police. He suspected that this was something the version of him in this particular timeline didn't tend to risk all that often, but he felt like the stakes were high enough to justify some recklessness.

On his arrival at Doc's place, Marty didn't even bother to knock. He could hear music drifting from within, which, bizarrely, only served to make him angrier. He'd rarely, if _ever_ , known Doc to indulge in the goddamn jukebox when they spent time together. If anything, Doc usually asked him to play a set or two while he tinkered with this, that, or the other thing. The jukebox was, as far as Marty was concerned, a personal affront. He wasn't going to stand for it.

He fished the key from under the mat, unlocked the door, and barged in. "What the hell is this?"

Doc glanced up from where he was perched on a tall stool at the work-top, startled. The piece of detritus he'd been soldering glowed an eerie shade of blue under the lamplight from overhead.

"Fruitless repairs on any number of the very few pieces I've been able to retrieve from along the railroad tracks?" he ventured. "Marty, _no_. It's not what you think. Are a few keepsakes too much to ask? I'd rather they looked presentable than all shot to hell. Do you recognize this?"

Marty had zoned out somewhere halfway through Doc's explanation, because he couldn't help but zero in on the song that was playing in the background. Jesus, he hadn't heard it in—

 _And I think it's gonna be a long, long time_  
_till touchdown brings me 'round again to find_  
_I'm not the man they think I am at home—_  
_oh, no no no._  
_I'm a rocket man,_  
_rocket man,_  
_burnin' out his fuse up here alone._

"Ah, yeah," said Marty, lightly, the fight gone out of him. "Elton John. That's a great one, Doc."

"Thank you," said Doc, wryly, hopping off the stool, "but I meant this coil fragment, not the song."

Marty nodded sadly, reaching out to carefully take the tongs that held it off Doc's hands without so much as losing an ounce of tension. "Flux capacitor," he said. "Or what's left of it, am I right?"

Doc nodded, walking back over to fetch the torch. "Tilt it just...there, just _so_ ," he said, shifting so that he could fire up the torch from an angle that wouldn't be hazardous to Marty's clothing. "Just a few more seconds and it should adhere as if..." He frowned, smiled, frowned again, and then extinguished the torch with a satisfied exhale. " _There_. Good as new."

"Not really, Doc," Marty sighed. "This is...jeez, this is _leftovers_. Where's the rest?"

"Damned if I know," said Doc, shrugging, taking the coil fragment and the tongs away from Marty one after the other. He set them aside on the work-top, dusting off his hands. "What's eating you, kid?"

Marty let his backpack slide to the ground and shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's Jennifer, Doc. I should've seen it coming after all that rotten stuff we saw in 2015, y'know? We broke up."

Doc's expression shifted from concern to agony. " _Ah_. That, I know something about."

"Well, we're even now," Marty said, shrugging. "What's that German word, schaden-something?"

" _Schadenfreude_ is the last emotion in which I'd feel comfortable indulging, Marty," Doc sighed, making an abortive movement in Marty's direction. "You're in pain. I don't enjoy it."

"Yeah," Marty sighed. "That one. Well, Jen got to enjoy it, so that's all that really matters." He let his ear tune back in to relentless wail of the jukebox. Elton John didn't know how fucking lucky he was to have found a lyricist like Bernie Taupin, did he even have the faintest _clue_?

 _Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids—_  
_in fact, it's cold as hell_  
_and there's no one there to raise them_  
_if you did._

 _And all this science I don't understand—_  
_it's just my job, five days a week,_  
_a rocket man,_  
_rocket man._

Before Marty knew what was happening, Doc had hugged him close. He sighed and relaxed into it, wrapping his arms tight around Doc's waist. He'd been missing this since Sunday, missing it since the DeLorean and the railroad tracks and the helpless thrill of their last century-wide leap.

"What do you want to do?" Doc asked, his voice muffled in Marty's hair. "Dinner's on me."

"Hey, Doc?" Marty asked, grinning into Doc's shoulder. He felt a slight, giddy thrill as he nuzzled into the (freshly laundered, thank _God_ ) yellow fabric. He didn't know what the fuck was going on, although he could certainly _guess_ , and he wasn't inclined to push it. Not yet.

"If you're attempting to deflect the question, you've got another thing coming," Doc sighed. His breath ghosted across Marty's temple as he lifted his head, pulling back just enough to offer Marty an apologetic look. "I'm sorry," he said, holding Marty at arms' length almost as Lorraine had done. "I don't know what's gotten into me. Everything since we've gotten back has felt...strange."

"I thought _I_ was the moody teenager," Marty pressed on, poking Doc in the ribs, but Doc's perplexed expression told him his teasing reference to Doc's choice of music had fallen flat. "You know what? Never mind. Let's get Italian from that place on Jefferson and see what's on TV."

When they got back with eggplant parm for Doc and spaghetti alla carbonara for him, they found a convenient Clint Eastwood marathon on one of the all-night movie channels. They'd blown through every last scrap of food by the end of _A Fistful of Dollars_ (no small thanks to Einstein, who they'd decided deserved a treat), and it was at the tail-end of _High Plains Drifter_ that Marty snapped awake, disoriented by the transition into an infomercial and Einstein's snoring at his feet.

Marty was curled up in the curve of Doc's arm, a detail only secondary to everything else and, astonishingly, _not weird at all_. Doc's head rested against the top of his; he was clearly as dead to the world as Einie, because his hold on Marty had gone slack. Marty didn't hesitate to bury his face against Doc's shoulder like he'd done earlier, taking in the sensory details he hadn't had the chance to catch before. Doc smelled like the soap he kept in his shower, but he also smelled like sweat because they'd been— _Cuddling_ , Marty thought, _call it what it is_ —for a few hours. He had little conscious sense of what he was about to do, at least not until it was too late.

Doc's neck was warm and smooth beneath the brush of his lips, no longer prickly. Doc shivered awake at the contact, setting Marty's pulse to pounding, but Marty didn't pull back. He held his breath as Doc yawned and stretched slightly, wondering if he was going to disentangle them and pretend that nothing had happened, but what happened next made _Marty_ shiver.

On one long, fragmented, shaky exhalation, Doc kissed Marty's forehead, his temple, and his cheek in slow succession. He let his lips rest there for the longest time, his breath temptingly uneven.

"I'd blame it on the booze like normal people do," said Marty, finding himself hoarse, "but we don't even really drink. I think it was a bad call on our part to turn down that free bottle of wine, Doc."

"I know my mind," said Doc, quietly, "and I trust you enough to say that you know yours, but this is dangerous territory, Marty. Far more dangerous than any time travel, do you understand?"

 _I know I wanna make out with you till I'm turned-on enough to see whether or not I'm too chicken to do anything about it_ , Marty thought, but he bit his lip and nodded instead. "Yeah," he said with reluctance, squeezing Doc tighter. "People have got it in for this kind of thing."

Doc made a strained sound at the back of his throat, kissing Marty's cheek again—softly this time, _so_ softly, as if it pained him. "You ought to go home," he said. "It's almost midnight."

" _Jesus_ ," Marty hissed, disentangling himself from Doc, running his fingers through his hair. "Mom's gonna kill me. She wanted me back by eleven. Why the fuck hasn't she called yet?"

"Your mother is a level-headed, forgiving person," said Doc, dryly, glancing up at him, "which is more than I could've said for her thirty years ago." His features clouded. "Marty, this isn't—"

"I don't want you to finish that sentence, Doc," Marty said, already halfway to the door, collecting his shoes and his backpack as he went. He jammed his feet into his Nikes, not bothering to lace them, and shouldered his untouched homework. "I don't care how scary this shit is. I'm turning eighteen in—" he did a quick count in his head, which resulted in a grimace "—okay, eight or nine months from now, but _still_. Can we please not freak out about this? I—" He took a deep breath, frozen on the spot as Doc contritely approached him. "Care about you, Doc. _Lots_."

"Tread carefully," Doc said, his gaze drifting past Marty's shoulder to the door. "Does care equal attraction? If you aren't sure, is it worth making a dreadful mistake in the endeavor to find out?"

At those words, Marty felt cold, indignant fury pool in his stomach. "You're not a mistake, Doc."

"Nor are you, Marty," replied Doc, with such reverence it broke Marty's resolve. "But I can't—"

Marty not only had to launch himself at Doc with all his strength, but also push up on the balls of his feet while he was at it. It was more of a clash than a kiss, raw, _demanding_. Doc caught him before he could topple them over, which was a hell of a lot better than they'd done on Sunday down at the railroad tracks. By the time they wrenched apart, God, _yeah_. Marty was turned-on enough to want to do something about it, and he could've _sworn_ he'd felt—

"Please," said Doc, haltingly, his voice a low rasp. "No more of this now. I'll drive you home."

"Fine, Doc," Marty sighed, letting go of him, reaching for the doorknob. "You win this round."

 

 

 

**" EARTH ANGEL "**

**☆ GLORIA MANN ☆**

**October 30, 1985**

Marty dropped his backpack next to the neatly-painted beige wainscoting, glancing back over his shoulder (always, forever, _endlessly_ looking behind) as George pulled out of his parents' driveway. Arthur and Sylvia had always insisted on having as many of the kids as would come for dinner at least one night a week, and, these days, Marty was the only one of a mind to comply. Some evenings, he wasn't in the mood, but, for some reason, he was glad of it now.

Part of him wished he could've gone right back to Doc's place after school, but he had to grudgingly admit that they both needed some time to think after what had happened. Still, feverish dreams were no substitute for a lover. Marty might've been inexperienced, but a fool? He _wasn't_.

"Where's my handsome grandson?" Sylvia called from the kitchen. "Get your behind in here!"

"Disgraceful," Arthur said from his vantage-point in the armchair. He clicked through channels, giving Marty a smile that rivaled George's finest, winking at him. "Do as she says, Marty."

"Hi, Grandpa," Marty said, giving him a salute as he kicked out of his shoes and padded into the kitchen. "Love you, too," he added as an afterthought, words fading with his breath as he wandered in to find Sylvia, backed by the lit-up oven timer, fiddling with her tape-player on the table.

"I can't get the hang of this damn thing to save my life," she lamented, brushing an elegant swath of salt-and-pepper hair back from her high, deeply-lined forehead. "How about some help for this old lady, huh?" She grinned at Marty as he picked up the empty cassette tape. "You wanna listen to this or something else? You can veto your poor grandmother's music, but God as my witness—"

"Gloria Mann did a recording of _Earth Angel_?" he blurted, scanning the tape's track-listing.

"Sure," said Sylvia, hitting rewind again, wearing a look of fierce concentration. "Her and everybody else and their cousins. Musta been five or six different covers in the first year alone."

"Hey, I'm game," Marty said, taking a seat at the table. "Wait a sec. I'd better go get my homework and start on it. Mom'll kill me if I have another night this week where I get nothing done."

"You do what you hafta do, honey," said Sylvia; no sooner had Marty got his history textbook from his backpack when he heard _click_ and a loud _aha!_ "Got it! This is gonna work. You just listen while I finish up these dishes, how's that?" Sylvia asked, twisting off her rings as Marty resumed his seat at the table with textbook, notebook, and pen in hand. "Keep an eye on these," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "Just like always. You never lost or ruined a damn thing that was important, and I don't care what your mother says about that rug. It was God-awful."

Marty let her drop the rings in his cupped palm, studying them as she turned up the volume on the tape-deck before she made her way over to the sink. He knew the whorls in her platinum band from memory, knew the prongs pinning her modest engagement diamond as well as he knew his own heart.

 _Earth angel, earth angel,_  
_will you be mine?_  
_My darling dear,_  
_love you all the time._  
_I'm just a fool,_  
_a fool in love with you._

"You're probably sick to death of that story your mother tells," Sylvia sighed, glugging a liberal amount of dish-liquid into the sink as she ran steaming water. "Betcha you're sick of the song, too."

"Actually, _ah_ ," said Marty, clearing his throat, setting her rings down. "I'm not. Really."

"Huh," Sylvia said, turning off the tap, plunging her gloveless hands into the water. "How's that?"

"I learned how to play it a week or so ago," he admitted. "Maybe a couple weeks ago. I've lost track of time. The chords aren't all that tough to figure out, not even if you've gotta wing it."

"Your father told me on the phone you broke up with that nice Parker girl," said Sylvia, flatly.

Marty squeezed his eyes shut, taking up his pen. "I really don't wanna talk about that, Grandma."

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Sylvia sighed, already scrubbing vigorously at a plate. "I thought maybe you'd wanna let it all out. I'd like to think me and Artie didn't raise us a dope, but your father, he's just so—so _repressed_ sometimes, ain't he?" She rinsed the dish and set it in the rack.

"It's okay," Marty said, trying to concentrate on the paragraph he'd begun to skim. "Mom let me vent, so that was good. Doc's great about that kind of thing, too. We had, um. Last night. Yeah."

 _Earth angel, earth angel,_  
_the one I adore—_  
_love you forever and ever more._  
_I'm just a fool,_  
_a fool in love with you._

"Aw, that's kind of him," said Sylvia, approvingly, glancing over her shoulder at Marty. "That's your friend—that odd scientist gentleman, isn't it? You know somethin'? I said to Artie the other day—I said, hey, Artie, I think I remember that Emmett Brown as a kid around town! Lanky redhead, wasn't he? And your grandfather, wouldn't you know, he couldn't remember a damn—"

"That's bullshit!" Artie called over the canned laughter of the sitcom he was watching. "I remember him as much as you do, maybe even better! Always down at the courthouse, that kid. Working."

"I guess I knew that," Marty said, jotting down a few key phrases about Prohibition-era nonsense. "He used to work for his father as a clerk or something. Erhardt Brown was a judge, right?"

"Best we ever had, maybe. He married us, you know, your grandfather and me," said Sylvia.

"No shit," Marty breathed, and then clapped his hand over his mouth. "I mean— _ah_. Really!"

"Yup," Sylvia replied proudly, humming along with the music. "We had a civil ceremony, nothing fancy. Shotgun wedding of the green-card variety, as you've probably been told a hundred times."

"Also a bit of a shotgun wedding in the shotgun sense, or so Dad claims," said Marty, low enough that he hoped Artie, who tended to be touchy on that point, wouldn't overhear. "He used that to scare us with the sex talk, can you believe it? Low blow, huh. You guys turned out just fine."

Sylvia chuckled, by now singing snatches interspersed with her humming. "You're too young to be thinkin' about that kind of thing," she said ruefully. "Maybe you dodged a bullet, Marty."

"Nah," Marty sighed. "Didn't get the chance to...have any reason to dodge in the first place."

"Well, ain't you a goody two-shoes," Sylvia shot back, turning to face him, damp hands on hips. "Next time you're in the mood to insult the birds an' the bees, why don't you just remember where your pretty voice an' your fancy guitar-playin' skills come from, eh? You get that from _me_."

 _God, it's so easy to forget she's Canadian under that New York showgirl swagger,_ Marty thought, grinning in spite of himself. "I wouldn't dream of forgetting, Grandma. Cross my heart."

"Such a good kid," Sylvia said, running more water. "Earth angel, earth angel, _please_ be mine..."

 _You're already mine, Doc,_ Marty thought, buckling down. _I've just got to prove it._

 

 

 

**" FINALLY FOUND A HOME "**

**☆ HUEY LEWIS & THE NEWS ☆**

**October 31, 1985**

Marty sighed, purposefully tuning his G-string. "Listen, I don't wanna work on anything else heavy right now, got it? That didn't go so hot," he said, avoiding Trav's questioning sidelong glance from the drum-set. "No more of the original stuff. It's making my head hurt. Why don't we just jam?"

"Mr. Cover Artist here's callin' it an early night," Emil muttered under his breath, strumming off-key just to grate on Marty's perfect-pitch nerves. "What are we gonna do, then? Play Radio Roulette?"

"Yeah, that oughta loosen us up a little," Marty said agreeably, thumbing the edge of his steel pick. "We're too tense." He nodded to Emil, who was closest to the stereo. Trav and his dad had one of those sweet set-ups like the McFly household now had, so big the damn thing had a glass-doored storage cabinet to itself. "Hit up the FM waves, would ya? Let's see what we've got."

"You mean _you're_ too tense," Lenny replied while Emil flipped through static. "Sorry about Jennifer, man, but that bitch thought she was too good—"

"Shut up," said Marty and Trav at exactly the same time, and then exchanged nervous glances. _Wow, what the fuck,_ Marty thought, focusing on the first flash of unadulterated sound that Emil hit, waving for him to stop. _Not even gonna ask about that_.

"Looks like Douchebag Lewis and the News strike again," said Emil, grinning apologetically at Lenny, who'd hissed _Dammit!_ under his breath. "All hail our fearless leader and his _Sports_ fetish. Still got that tour poster up on your bedroom wall, poindexter? Or would you rather we switched back to the latest crap you scrawled in English class?"

Marty didn't like this revised state of affairs one bit. He was losing his grip on these guys faster than he could keep track. "Nah, it'll do," Marty said, fingers poised and ready. "I like this track just fine. Emil, unplug that shit. And one, two—one, two, three, _four_ —"

He tore through the opening riff too fast for the other guys to keep up at first, but hey: he had no reason to go easy on them. He was going to pour all of his pent-up frustration into the thrilling familiarity of this number, and they were just going to have to deal with it. Huey Lewis was strong material for them; the lead vocals were usually in Marty's range, and he did have the advantage of knowing the entire album by heart. He drew a deep, steadying breath and began to sing.

 _It used to make me so fed up,_  
_people always asking me,_  
_"What will you be when you grow up?_  
_You're gonna need security."_  
_Spent a little time in school,_  
_wishing I was somewhere else,_  
_having fun and acting cool—_  
_I just want to be myself._

 _And I finally found a home,_  
_where I'll never be alone—_  
_right here where I belong._  
_And I finally found a home_  
_here, in a song._

They had their act together now, just like old times. Marty thought about what he was singing, _really_ thought about it, for what felt like the first time in ages. He'd always liked this one for a veg-out track, not like the one they'd used for their dance audition, but it seemed to take on a new meaning under the present circumstances. He thought about Doc alone in his garage, unable to stop dwelling on the fact they hadn't spoken in the forty-eight hours since they'd kissed.

 _Thought I'd finally found the one—_  
_together we would always be._  
_Funny how things come undone—_  
_love's not what it's supposed to be._  
_Now everybody needs a place,_  
_even if it's on a stage._  
_Everybody needs a race,_  
_something to help them turn the page._

 _And I finally found a home,_  
_where I'll never be alone—_  
_right here where I belong._  
_And I finally found a home_  
_here, in a song._

So he'd fucked his chances with Jennifer: there was no turning back the clock on that one. The events of the past couple of weeks across however many decades had shown his priorities for what they were, hadn't they? His priorities were—well, _shit_. Doc and his family, in that order.

 _It used to make me so fed up,_  
_people always asking me,_  
_"What are you now that you've grown up?"_  
_Exactly what I want to be._

Marty wrapped the song a lot rougher than he would have liked, the tightness in his throat making it difficult to finesse the finish. He let his left hand fall to his side, wiping his forehead with the back of his right. Trav clanged out an errant final flourish, gracing Marty with a huge, loopy grin.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, gesturing toward the stairs with a drumstick. "Go get some water."

"Yeah," Marty agreed, unshouldering his guitar, setting it down carefully on top of the nearest speaker. "Thanks, don't mind if I do. Your dad isn't upstairs or anything? I won't disturb him?"

"Dad's still out at the bar," said Trav, shrugging. "Haven't heard anybody come in or anything."

"Right," Marty said, jogging for the stairs, already feeling guilty for what he was about to do. He'd been given the perfect excuse; how could he refuse an earnest impulse? "I'll only be a minute."

They usually practiced in the basement at Trav's place because it was a small house, often empty, occupied the rest of the time by just Trav and his father. Marty dashed through the darkened kitchen, wiping his damp palms on his jeans, hoping he wasn't hallucinating the memory of a telephone in Trav's bedroom. He also hoped that Trav had his own line like Marty did, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He shut the door behind him, reaching for the handset on the night-stand.

"C'mon, Doc," he said, punching in Doc's number from memory. "Please pick up the phone."

"Brown Residence," said Doc, picking up after one ring, his breath taut. "Marty, is that you?"

"Either you've developed those mind-reading powers after all, or you put an awful lot of faith in me," said Marty, grinning in sheer relief. He sat down on the edge of Trav's unmade bed. "Hey."

"Is everything all right?" asked Doc, concerned. "Your mother told me you were at music practice."

"You called the main line at my house?" Marty asked, flushing from collarbone to belly with sheer, immediate warmth. "I hope Mom didn't grill you too badly. She could yak anyone's ear off."

"It's just that I hadn't heard from you in a couple days," replied Doc, sounding kind of lost. "I wanted to give you time to think after—well, _after_. I thought that I needed some myself, but..." He trailed off, frustrated. "My patience isn't what it's cracked up to be. And I worry."

"I really wanna kiss you right now, Doc," said Marty, lowering his voice. "How does that sound?"

"If you were here," admitted Doc, with a measure of reluctance, "I wouldn't mind that in the least."

"Why don't I come around tomorrow night?" Marty suggested, realizing he'd have to frame his proposition pretty carefully. "I haven't crashed at yours in a while. Mom and Dad won't think anything of it, and I'm sure Dave and Linda will be glad to have my whiny ass out of their hair."

"You're not the moody teenager around here at the moment, Marty, believe me," Doc muttered.

"Aw," Marty said, cupping one hand over his mouth and the receiver. "That was almost sweet."

"Tomorrow if you can manage it," said Doc, sounding defeated. "I can't refuse you anything."

Marty sucked in his breath. "I can't stand to leave you alone when there's so much I wanna—"

"Marty? What the _fuck_ , man?" Trav called back the hall. "Did you fall in or something?"

"That didn't sound good," said Doc. "Is it one of your band-mates? Do you think they overheard?"

"He thinks I'm in the bathroom," Marty sighed, "but I'll just tell him I had to make a call. Gotta go, Doc. Don't do anything I wouldn't till I get there tomorrow, okay? See ya." He hung up, yanked open the bedroom door, and wandered out to contritely face Trav. "Sorry. Had to phone home."

Trav smirked at him, amused. "Is your dad still into that _E.T._ and _Star Wars_ shit?"

"Hey, it's mostly _bitchin'_ shit," said Marty. "At least those movies are. C'mon, let's play."

 

 

 

**" UNCHAINED MELODY "**

**☆ AL HIBBLER ☆**

**November 1, 1985**

Marty swapped out his school books and gym clothes for his overnight stuff as soon as he got home from school. Lorraine stood in the doorway to his bedroom and made a token fuss while he packed, her eyes tracking his every move. Thankfully, there was nothing out-of-the-ordinary to this scene.

"I know your sister and brother have been riding you awfully hard since the break-up," Marty's mother sighed, regarding him with worry. "I can understand why you need to get out of the house. Just make sure we see at least a _little_ of you this weekend, all right? Sunday dinner?"

"You mean I can stay with Doc till Sunday afternoon?" asked Marty, incredulous. "Like—Ma, I don't want you to think I'm taking liberties with your generosity here or anything, but can that be a more regular thing?" He took a shaky breath, choosing his words carefully. "I wanna spend more time with Doc. I know I spend a lot of time with him already, but...I don't know how long I'll have him? It's like...dinner with Grandma and Grandpa every week, only this is my _best friend_."

Lorraine folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head at Marty. "I wish my parents were still alive to see what a caring young man you've grown up to be," she said. "They would've wanted to spend more time with you, too. I'm only sorry they were both gone by the time you were ten."

Marty zipped up his backpack, and then paused to return her sad smile. "I feel like I got a strong sense of them while I was a kid," he said. "They loved us a lot, you know? Sometimes it feels like the last time I saw them was only yesterday." His throat constricted; he looked away. " _So_."

"You want to spend more of your weekends at Doc Brown's place," echoed Lorraine, cautiously, as if to establish precise terms. "He's offering you more space to yourself than we can. It upsets me to realize that, Marty, but I understand. I expect you to spend some of that time on college applications rather than just goofing off. A mind like his at your disposal is valuable."

"Doc still has some connections at Stanford," Marty replied. "Who knows what could happen?"

Gaze flicking upward, Lorraine nodded, still wearing that sad smile. "Run along now," she said.

Marty would've called Doc to come pick him up if he hadn't been so intent on surprising Doc with how quickly he'd been able to escape his mother's fussy orbit this time. He got to Doc's place in under ten minutes, which was pretty impressive given the traffic and general weekend hubbub surrounding Hill Valley's courthouse square. There were still some kids in costume running around, ghosts and mummies and vampires and turning cartwheels in the grass for a second night running.

Doc answered the door before Marty could even bend to retrieve the key from under Doc's mat. He must've been watching from a window. Einstein circled them both, snuffling with nervous intent. Familiar music filled he laboratory, and the overhead lights were turned lower than work-intensity.

Doc closed the door behind them as Marty stepped inside, hesitant in spite of how close they were standing. "I was surprised when you suggested coming over here," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be playing at the school dance tonight? I thought that's why you were practicing yesterday."

"Nah, Doc," Marty sighed, taking the opportunity to shed his backpack and his shoes so Doc would hopefully feel less awkward about what was probably going to be the world's _most_ awkward second (or third, or however-manieth) date. "We bombed the audition. Sorry I didn't tell you."

"I'm sorry, Marty," sighed Doc, finally, _finally_ reaching for him. "I know you wanted—"

It took a minute for Marty to focus on the strains emanating from the jukebox. Doc bent low, letting Marty wrap his arms around Doc's neck. Doc's mouth was warm and yielding—questioning, yet insistent. _Jesus, yeah,_ Marty thought, leaning into it, listening as the song ended.

 _Wherever you may be, I'll be beside you_  
_although you're many million dreams away._  
_Each night, I'll say a prayer—_  
_a prayer to guide you,_  
_to hasten every lonely hour_  
_of every lonely day._

 _Now the dawn is breaking_  
_through a grey tomorrow,_  
_but the memories we share_  
_are there to borrow._

 _Vaya con dios, my darling._  
_Vaya con dios, my love._

 _Vaya con dios, my darling._  
_Vaya con dios, my love._

"Was that all right?" asked Doc, cringing, raking one hand through his hair. "This isn't my—"

"Can we just get this all out in the open?" asked Marty, nuzzling Doc's cheek. "I wanna make love to you, okay? Christ, I sound like my Grandma. Let's try this again: I wanna drive you wild, but I don't have a fucking clue about it, either. The amazing thing, though, is that I don't really care."

Doc swallowed, blinking, as if he meant to say something, but instead he leaned in and kissed Marty harder, running his fingers through Marty's hair. "I want to give you whatever I can."

"The funny thing is, it took me a while to remember why I knew the Spanish in this song," Marty said, trembling a little as Doc pressed tentative kisses down the side of Marty's neck. "It's what you said when you sent me off to 1885," he mumbled, shamefully close to whimpering. "In 1955."

Doc shrugged, giving Marty that apologetic, what-the-hell smile. "This song was a hit in 1953. Top of the charts, the whole shebang. By '55, you still heard it on the radio often enough that it was effectively everywhere. If it hadn't been already, _Vaya con dios_ became household lingo."

"So here's how I confirmed my suspicions about you secretly being a huge romantic at heart," Marty continued, hanging onto Doc for support as Doc lavished attention on the _other_ side of Marty's neck. "All I had to do was watch you with Clara. I'd never seen you infatuated with _anybody_ before. There were times in the past year when I thought you might be flirting in your own roundabout way, but—it was _you_ , Doc. You can be hard to read sometimes."

"Couldn't even tell infatuation from the real thing, not even when the real was standing in front of me the whole time," Doc muttered, the tantalizing brush of his tongue against Marty's earlobe shifting to the slight, sudden sting of teeth. "After years convincing myself you were someone I could never have, I'd just—resigned myself to that fact. I couldn't even risk letting on—"

The jukebox flipped over to a fresh track, seemingly without need of human control. Marty was distinctly impressed; whatever mechanism Doc had set up, it was clearly capable of cycling through the machine's one-hundred selections at random. Marty recognized the track on first strains alone.

 _Oh, my love, my darling—_  
_I've hungered for your touch_  
_a long, lonely time._

 _Time goes by so slowly,_  
_and time can do so much._  
_Are you still mine?_

 _I need your love,_  
_I need your love—_  
_God speed your love to me._

"Goddamn it," he breathed, swaying a little as Doc kissed his throat. "Just take me to bed already."

"Do you recognize this version?" Doc asked, pulling back, blinking at Marty with a hazy, dreamlike expression. "You probably know the one by Elvis Presley, of course, which is also on there—"

"You've updated this thing pretty regularly over the years, haven't you?" Marty asked, taking one coaxing step away, tugging Doc by the hands. "I've glanced through the tags. Impressive spread."

"Al Hibbler, 1955," Doc said. "This was the first recording of the song to be released, unless you count the orchestral version recorded by Todd Duncan for the prison-drama film for which it was written. _Unchained_ , hence the title. I do keep up with _some_ popular culture."

"If my stay with you in 1955 taught me anything, it's that you're way more pop-culture savvy than I'd realized. _Ronald Reagan, the actor_!" Marty exclaimed, but it was a terrible imitation. " _Vaya con dios_. I've nosed through your record collection, Doc. It's huge. I think I even saw my grandmother's record in there. You must've known she performed as Trixie Trotter, right?"

"I've had enough of discussing this town's history for the time being," Doc said, permitting Marty to lead him over to his queen-size bed in the living-room corner of the garage. He sat down beside Marty on the edge of the mattress, leaning in for another achingly tender kiss. "Haven't you?"

 _Lonely rivers flow_  
_to the sea, to the sea—_  
_to the open arms of the sea._

 _Lonely rivers sigh,_  
_"Wait for me, wait for me."_  
_I'll be coming home—_  
_wait for me._

"Yeah," Marty said, using the transition in the song as an excuse to get to his feet. He didn't know the first thing about performing a strip-tease, and this wasn't strip-tease music anyway. He'd settle for just unbuttoning his shirt, no-nonsense, just _so_ , glancing up every once in a while to gauge Doc's reaction. He shed his top layers on the floor, unclipping his already dangling suspenders. Doc's breath hitched, escaping him on a sigh as Marty fumbled at the button-fly of his jeans. "Maybe a little help?" he managed, not knowing how else to ask. _Undress me, idiot._

Doc shifted off the bed, getting down on his knees without having to be told twice. He unbuttoned Marty with care, trailing open-mouthed kisses across Marty's collarbone. Marty squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get his breath under control; this was the single hottest thing anybody had ever done to him (not that it was saying much, given that his past data consisted solely of a dozen or so restrained, fully-clothed make-out sessions with Jen). When Doc pushed Marty's jeans down off his hips, Marty opened his eyes to find Doc watching him with undisguised concern.

Marty tried to kiss Doc and kick out of his trousers at the same time, but that ended in Marty landing flat on his ass in nothing but a pair of grey Calvin Klein briefs. Fleetingly, he was glad the purple ones hadn't entered into this particular equation; he'd never be able to seduce anybody wearing _those_ with a straight face, not ever. Maybe Doc wouldn't mind him cracking up.

"Here," Doc said, helping him to his feet. They were standing face to face now, and Doc had _way_ too many clothes on, that much was apparent. "Would you...ah, do the honors?"

"You never even had to ask," said Marty, hating the tremor in his voice, and started in on Doc's shirt buttons. Getting him out of that and his habitual, boring white undershirt wasn't something he could do completely on his own, not with Doc standing at his full height, so Marty directed him to sit back down on the edge of the bed. He paused once Doc was shirtless, leaning in for a kiss.

"Take your pants off, Doc," he muttered against Doc's mouth, finding Doc's fly easy to unfasten even while he was otherwise occupied. He let his hand explore a little when Doc didn't object to his boldness, palming Doc lightly through his cotton boxers while Doc lifted up to comply, pushing at his trousers till they pooled around his ankles. Marty hadn't realized till that moment he was barefoot. "Underwear, too," Marty said, stepping back, deciding he'd better remove his own.

 _Oh, my love, my darling—_  
_I've hungered for your touch_  
_a long, lonely time._

 _Time goes by so slowly,_  
_and time can do so much._  
_Are you still mine?_

 _I need your love,_  
_I need your love—_  
_God speed your love to me._

Marty had to marvel at the ludicrous, yet undeniably romantic musical hand they'd been dealt by random mechanical shuffle. _Unchained Melody_ transitioned into _Forever Young_ (a resounding hit by Alphaville, which had come out the year before) with an unyielding _click_. He ignored the fact that it was more implication than he wanted to think about right now; Doc was sitting there naked in front of him, his expression somehow both anxious and relieved.

"C'mere," Marty said, even though Doc was the one reaching for him. He settled Doc's hands at his waist, shivering with the too-welcome touch, letting himself be tugged into Doc's lap. Marty canted his hips, trembling at the contact. It was as if each of the occasional, baffling, _extraordinary_ wet dreams he'd ever had about Doc had decided to come true all at once.

" _Oh_ ," breathed Doc, the word a low moan, so quiet it hurt to hear. "Marty, how can you—"

"How about _you_ stop asking rhetorical questions and, I don't know, maybe lay down with me or something?" Marty snapped, suddenly too nervous for his own good. Doc's skin was warm and flushed and—and _amazing_. God, he was hard; they _both_ were. Marty pressed against him again, curious, wondering just what it would take to get Doc off. He already knew he wasn't going to last that long, not if Doc touched him or kissed him or _any of the above_.

"Tell me what you want," Doc whispered, almost pleading with him. "Anything. Just name it."

Marty twisted sideways, crawling onto the mattress, regretting the loss of closeness. He tugged Doc after him—grabbing at Doc's wrists, his elbows, the backs of his thighs, _anything_ —until he was lying on his back, breathless, shivering against Doc's pile of pillows. _Any minute_ , he thought.

"Touch me, kiss me, fucking _hold_ me, Doc," he pleaded. "I don't even care! Talk dirty?"

Instantly, Doc's expression went from desire-hazed to taken aback, but Marty's knees locking onto his hips seemed to snap him right out of it. "Spread your legs," he whispered in Marty's ear, voice control impressive in spite of how terrified they both were, hand sliding down Marty's chest until Doc's long fingers splayed across his belly, palm cradling Marty's cock. "I want to suck you."

Each sensation was too bright in that moment, too intense. Even Doc holding him just like he'd asked, kissing Marty's forehead to calm him, praise him, _marvel_ at this—it all curled into one shapeshifting, mercurial knot. Bliss pulled ever tighter, music-bound, strands inseparable.

" _Doc_ ," Marty gasped, clinging as he came in Doc's hand. "Maybe n— _next_ time?"

Doc kissed the words right back into his mouth, frantic, so that was all right. Marty shuddered, still drunk on sensation, happy to let him. Doc had let go of Marty's hard-on and settled them close; it felt better to have Doc pressed up against him like this while he rode out the aftershocks anyway.

"I didn't..." Doc couldn't seem to remain coherent, and Marty knew he was close. Digging the heels of his hands into the small of Doc's back, Marty writhed under him, trying to coax him to move; he hooked his ankles at Doc's shins, just below the knee, for leverage. "Didn't know you'd enjoy being...talked to like that," Doc sighed, gratefully settling into the rhythm Marty offered him.

"I didn't mean _filthy_ , and it's not like you said anything that didn't work," Marty mumbled, nibbling Doc's earlobe just to get back at him for earlier. "You're right, I'm not really that kind of guy. Neither are you. I just meant—jeez, Doc, I wanted you to _say_ something, anything, like what you were gonna do to me, and that's what you did. I hope you do, _um_." Marty wondered how he could possibly still have the capacity to blush. "Suck me, I mean," he clarified.

Doc went still, his expression softening in spite of how much effort it must have taken to gather his wits, and kissed Marty's forehead. Maddening already, that strangely old-fashioned gesture, but Marty suspected he wouldn't trade it for anything. "I'll do whatever your heart desires," Doc said.

Three years was a long time to be in love with somebody and not _admit_ to yourself that you were in love with them till push came to shove. And waiting till said other person was treating you like fucking royalty in an intimate situation was even less forgivable.

"Doc, there's something I need you to know," Marty said, still hoarse. He touched Doc's cheek when the eyes darting to meet his flashed candid with worry. "It's something good. I promise."

"I'd rather you got it over with sooner than later," said Doc, too gravely for Marty's liking. He kissed Marty's forehead again. "I've gleaned that emotion and suspense usually don't mix."

The jukebox wailed away, oblivious. Juice Newton's _Angel of the Morning_ was too much.

"I don't want this to be a one-time thing," Marty told him, bringing his hands up from Doc's hips to Doc's shoulders, brushing at Doc's fly-away hair with shaky fingers. "You're not just some fling because I got horny or curious or—or _whatever_ , Doc." Marty swallowed as Doc, so trusting it broke Marty's heart, nodded in solemn acknowledgment. "I've been crazy for you for so long that I can't think straight. Please don't tell me I can't be with you, all right? That's what everyone else is gonna say if they find out before June, so I don't think I could take it if you started saying that, too."

Instead of responding, Doc kissed him, fierce and soothing all at once. "Knowing what I know now, I'd have destroyed the time machine. I'd have disavowed every dangerous project to which I've otherwise exposed you, Marty, just to keep you safe." He touched Marty's cheek. "I care for you too deeply to put you in danger ever again, do you understand? And therein lies the paradox: I'm putting you in danger even as we speak."

Marty was sick of the sass blaring out of those speakers with each passing moment, but he shut it out to the best of his ability. Doc seemed completely insensible to the music now, trapped between lust and concern; Marty wasn't about to let him go on like that. He pushed at Doc until Doc rolled off him, grimacing as he cast about for something to clean up the mess he'd left. Doc rolled onto his back, eyes tightly closed, one hand covering his mouth and the other on Marty's arm while Marty cleaned himself off with Doc's undershirt. He dropped it once he was finished and crawled back over to Doc, not wasting any time. He kissed Doc soft and slow, taking Doc's flagging erection in hand. Doc whimpered into Marty's mouth, surrendering without protest.

"Your only job right now," Marty told him, "is to just lie here and leave the rest to me, okay?"

Doc blinked at him, uncharacteristically lost for a guy who'd just gotten Marty off spectacularly using nothing but his voice and his hand. "Marty, I _won't_ ask for anything you can't—"

Marty gave Doc a firm tug, drawing a breathless groan from him. "You're not asking me for anything," he insisted, letting go so that he could reposition himself and kiss his way from Doc's breastbone down to his belly, trailing nips and licks in his wake. "I'm gonna make sure you feel just as great as I do—or I'm gonna _try_ , at least—after which I'm gonna stay with you all night, maybe get some sleep, and then do it all over again in the morning. And then repeat the cycle, if you really wanna get technical, because I can stay till Sunday. How's that for an experiment?"

The jukebox had committed to serenading them with _Kyrie_. Marty thought of Tiff's shirt, hiding his silent laughter against Doc's inner thigh. He planted an open-mouthed kiss there, reaching up so that Doc could take his left hand, lacing their fingers together. He used his right to hold Doc's erection steady, indulging in a pre-emptive taste. _Salt, Doc. Just you,_ he thought, sucking tentatively, but without hesitation. He let go of the base, molding his hand to Doc's hipbone.

Doc squeezed Marty's hand, tugging at it, his breathing a labored rasp beneath the music. "Please," he said, quiet again, so _unbelievably_ quiet. "Marty, look at me. I want to see— _please_."

Marty let the head of Doc's erection slip from between his lips, dotting a few kisses against it. He crawled up to rest against him without hesitation, letting his full weight come down with deliberation. He looked Doc straight in the eye, rubbing one thigh up against him, completely taken in. "What else can I do for you while I'm up here, huh?" he asked gently. "You doing okay?"

"Kiss me?" Doc asked, as if it were somehow the most harrowing request he could imagine.

"You're so fucking sweet I'm gonna need a trip to the dentist, Doc, you know that?" Marty groused, blushing, happy to oblige him. He indulged in some serious grinding while he was at it, letting his body respond instinctively to the way Doc, shuddering, clutched at him and winced into the kiss.

Whatever it was that Doc groaned into Marty's mouth between kisses got lost to the fascination of watching his expression change, to the satisfaction of registering each slick pulse of heat between them. When Doc was finished, exhausted, Marty kissed Doc's closed eyes and then face-planted in the pillow, resting his sticky cheek against Doc's. He wouldn't be able to breathe, but oh well.

"Hey, don't be mad at me or anything," Marty said, not sure when else would be the best time for him to confess given that they'd need to be out of bed by noon, "but I sorta told Biff Tannen's oldest she could come over and meet you tomorrow at one o'clock. Her name's Tiff, and she's interested in science. Seems like a good enough kid. Fell far enough from the family tree, you know?"

Doc just kept rubbing Marty's back in long, even strokes from his shoulder blades down to his hips, as if he couldn't believe he could do that now for the pleasure of it. "Maybe give me advance warning next time," he said mildly, turning his head to kiss Marty's temple. "But that's fine."

"I thought we could see what she's got. Seeing as I've been promoted," Marty teased, combing his fingers through Doc's hair in a moment of realization. He lifted his head. "This is really happening, isn't it?"

"If what you've told me is true, then yes," Doc said. "One of the Tannen offspring is coming to—"

"No, Doc," Marty cut in, kissing Doc on the lips. "I meant _this_. Us. Right here, right now."

Doc gave him that endearing, unexpectedly befuddled look, taking Marty's face in both hands before giving him a slow, thorough kiss in return. "All the evidence points in that direction."

"Just checking," replied Marty, breathless. "I wanted to make sure we were on the same page." While Doc lay there mulling over the next thing he clearly wanted to say, Marty got up and went for the paper towels. Clean-up wasn't going to be his favorite thing about sex, but it was worth being able to curl back up with Doc, comfortable under sheets worn to decades-soft perfection.

"Marty, whatever else may happen," Doc said at length, "I can say without hesitation that my life's been better for your presence in it. I meant every word of that letter. You come first now."

"And I meant every word of mine," Marty said, burrowing as close as he could. "Doc, I..."

" _Shhh_ ," Doc whispered, sounding kind of sleepy. "I know. There's no reason to rush—"

"Shut up," Marty replied, closing his eyes, absolutely content. "I love the hell out of you, got it?"

"I have no idea where your turns of phrase come from, Future Boy," Doc murmured, surprisingly articulate in spite of the fact he was already drowsing, "but I love the hell out of you, too."

 _Finally found a home_ , Marty thought, yawning. "Remind me to sing you something."

Doc nodded in agreement, eyes closed, his breathing relaxed. He held Marty even tighter.

The jukebox played on, scattershot serenades from Pat Benatar to Beethoven. Marty slept.


End file.
